


Like Electric Current

by NicoleAnell



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 20:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoleAnell/pseuds/NicoleAnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for bsg_epics Inspiration Day activities challenge, with the prompt "HeadBaltar learns to play pyramid." Not crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Electric Current

Her fingers curve around the ball, and his around hers. "Everything is in the wrist," he says as if he has it on good authority. God's, probably (though he'll admit He's been strangely silent on the rules of pyramid).

The Buccaneers' home court is still there in Caprica City, in a manner of speaking. The awning atop the stadium has partially caved in, and a collapsed column took out all the most expensive box seats, but the main field is relatively spotless, bleached.

"Is it in the wrist?" The Six -- Caprica too, like the city -- almost smiles, mirroring his accent. "You've become an expert?"

"I've always found it terribly boring, actually. Trashy. I don't know why you'd go to those silly events."

"You never even knew I did," she says with an ounce of sadness; she doesn't like breaking the spell this way, remembering he is Not Gaius, some twisted echo of the man she knew.

"Well, I'm here now," he says, adding a gentle smirk. "In a sense. Show me what the fuss is about."

She tosses the ball to the metal slot where it falls through the other side, missing her first attempt by inches. "The wrist," he reminds her with false certainty, and the second time she scores, rolling her eyes.

"If you really want to play, Gaius," she says, "you're supposed to _stop_ me from doing that." He brushes her shoulder lightly with his hand, which is not a regulation move but effective enough, and she lets the ball roll to his side. When she looks again he's holding it, or at least something pyramid ball-shaped in his Gaius-shaped hand, examining it like a foreign object.

"You're standing in the wrong place," she tells him, clearing the knot from her throat, casually regaining her balance where he seemed to touch her. "The neutral zone is there. I could tag you right now."

"Why don't you?" He knows there are many reasons, not least that she's not sure if she can. But she tries anyway, forgetting herself, and he dodges her with an odd kind of grace. He moves like a ghost, flitting just out of her reach until he's back in his protected square, and she stumbles a bit but laughs when he scores a technical goal and returns the ball to her -- she turns and it's at her feet, and he smiles like he dropped it there.

"That's seven to two," she tells him.

"Seven to- what kind of frakking point system is this?" he says in mock irritation. "Is that Cylon math?"

They play through the rest of the period like this, until a chill passes over and they feel the staleness of the air, her more than him. He supposes it's been fifteen minutes but the giant clock is useless, electricity fried for weeks. "Do you remember how you watched that game on the telly that afternoon?" he asks. "After..."

"You were asleep," she reminds him. "You didn't know that. You'd never be able to follow it."

"Maybe I was faking it. Maybe I wanted to keep that moment as eternal as you did."

She stares into the goal and blinks at the dust in her eyes. "Why are you doing this?" she asks. Her voice is brittle and wounded like a prisoner's.

"Because he never will," comes the answer quickly. "Because you killed me." He knows this isn't cruelty. The truth is that she wants these distractions, that they calm her mind. She wants the guilt and the suffering too, in a way only he knows, because she is so illogically terrified of losing it. "There wasn't much death here in the beginning," he tells her evenly. "Two janitors -- they were the only ones here that early. Second circle of the blast, like the house. One of them ran."

Her mouth twists and she fixes her eyes on the grey sky, breathing slowly.

"They brought the bodies here, though," he says. "That's what the smell was. So much space. It's your move, isn't it?"

She lowers her head and then steadies herself. "Yes," she says vaguely. "Yes." She'd count the victims in her head if he wasn't there. He thinks he's seen her do it.

"Seven to two," he says. "Or so you _say_. Show me what that high target's for, dear." He doesn't touch her shoulder again.


End file.
